


stay till the morning light

by jugheadjones



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Minor Character Death, Oscar's funeral, Sad makeouts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27014782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugheadjones/pseuds/jugheadjones
Summary: He went a few steps up towards the landing and then looked down. Bunny was looking up at him, her eyes flooded with tears. She mouthed the words “Oscar’s room,” and FP nodded in understanding.or: the evening before oscar's funeral
Relationships: Fred Andrews & Alice Cooper & FP Jones II, Fred Andrews & Hiram Lodge, Fred Andrews/FP Jones II
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	stay till the morning light

**Author's Note:**

> is it an early birthday gift for kim? a late birthday gift for briana? did I just write some random shit for no reason? 
> 
> there is supposed to be a second chapter which will be the day of the funeral. will I ever write it? anyones guess. keeping you on your toes. 
> 
> title from [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OSQ6Vf8CIRc)
> 
> ps thanks to kim for oscar's og death story including him selling the drunk kids the liquor.. i owe her everything

FP shifted from foot to foot on the Andrews’ doorstep, waiting for his knock to be answered. January had come in like a lion that year, all blustering snowdrifts and stormy gray skies, and he was freezing half to death in his worn jacket and running shoes. Being sober didn’t help - he did have a flask tucked deep in the inside pocket of his coat, but had made a promise to himself that he’d dry out for this occasion. For Fred. FP was seventeen, but he was far enough gone by now in what would later be a full-fledged drinking problem that only for his best friend in the world would he have come here without at least indulging in a beer or two. 

The Riverdale High duffel bag he used for overnights, tattered as it was, seemed garishly inappropriate for this occasion, the blue and gold almost shouting against his shoulder. Inside he’d packed the closest thing he could approximate to funeral clothes: dark jeans and a black collared shirt that had been his father’s. He was hoping Fred would have something else for him to borrow. Fred wasn’t a suit-and-tie kind of guy, not by a long shot, but no son of Artie Andrews got around without having something like that at the back of his closet. And if Fred had nothing, maybe Oscar would. FP could wear the guy’s own suit to his funeral. 

Bunny opened the door, her face very pale and carefully blank. When she recognized FP a light came into her eyes, and she looked overwhelmed to see him standing there. In a warm motion, she abruptly reached out and crushed him to the front of her black dress in a tight hug. 

“Oh, FP, thank goodness.” She was slight but strong, and he found himself caught in a vice-like grip he couldn’t have evaded even if he’d wanted to. She felt as though she’d lost weight - or maybe she’d just always been that small. Her fine gold hair had been done haphazardly up in some style that was rapidly losing shape, and the spray of blonde settling around her shoulders made her look oddly young. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured roughly. It felt inadequate; painfully so. He was aware of other people moving in the house behind her, the murmur of low conversation and the creak of shoes on parquet. His fingers felt itchy and he wished badly for a drink already. She released him, wiping tears from her cheeks. The furrows under her eyes were as pronounced as they felt under his own. 

“He’s upstairs. Did you bring your things? Of course, anything you need you can borrow, including a suit. It means so much to him to have you stay over. Of course, we’ve got a full house, but you two will just bunk up like you always do. Our house is yours. Come on in - come in.” 

She ushered him quickly into the front hall, site of countless summer afternoons and playdates and mornings he lingered waiting for Fred to get his school shit together so they could walk down Elm street and off towards the high school. FP’s stomach jolted unpleasantly when he made eye contact with Artie, who had stepped into the hall, and was abruptly more disturbed to see that it wasn’t Artie at all, but a man who only looked like Fred’s father in height and feature, if not in bearing. The man looked at Bunny, realized she was otherwise occupied, and walked swiftly into the kitchen, a glass of tempting amber held in one hand. 

A stout older woman with a brunette bob was in the middle of an argument on the hall telephone. FP caught the words _ wreaths  _ and _ funeral parlour. _ She turned and cut her eyes briefly from Bunny to FP, and he noticed with a jolt that they were the exact blue-green of Bunny’s own. 

_ Relatives,  _ he thought, understanding and disturbed. It was something like walking a house of mirrors. It wasn’t his first time meeting Fred’s family, but he’d never noticed so starkly the features they shared with his friend - and more disturbingly, with Oscar. The woman with the brunette bob had the same round chin as Fred’s late brother. 

FP had been ushered into this family’s gatherings before; sticky August picnics and great sprawling family reunions that he had cherished invitations to beyond measure. Bunny and Fred had always insisted he was as welcome as any biological cousin or sibling, and he thought of these occasions fondly and painfully now, the luxuriant freedom of being an unofficial member of this family. They were good people - kind and happy, none of them wealthy but endlessly giving. He remembered picking watermelon out of a large bowl as some uncle of Fred’s manned the barbecue grill, freckle-faced cousins chasing each other in some endless game of tag while he stuck to Fred’s side like a twin. The stark contrast of this gathering gave it an unpleasant echo effect, as though he had lived a variation of this day before, in a happier lifetime. 

The hall FP was in was crowded with floral arrangements, which were giving the house its pungent funeral scent. Below that was the sharp odour of cleaner, as though it had scrubbed beneath these offerings for all it was worth. The hardwood floors gleamed, the familiar blue carpeting displaying a pin-neat row of vacuum lines. There was an air of empty anticipation about the place, like a school musical before opening night. Only this was a grim bit of theatre, something only a particularly morbid teacher would have chosen. 

Bunny opened the hall closet to hang up FP’s drenched and tattered coat. It was stuffed from end to end, cluttered with coats, umbrellas, and bags. A cluster of mismatched suitcases sat on the floor among the haphazard sports equipment that had always lived there. Bunny somehow located a free hanger and made FP’s jacket disappear into the mess. FP remembered the flask, but couldn’t bring himself to ask for it. He’d hunt it down later if he needed it. 

Grief hung palpably about the house like it was full of smoke. He didn’t dare look into the family room, though the doorway was nearby. It was here that the loudest buzz of conversation was coming from, and Artie would probably be there. Bunny’s hand had landed on the back of his shoulder, it trembled as she nudged him towards the stairs, the nails digging a little into his skin. He’d noticed her nails were neatly painted, and it made the first stab of real grief slice through his nerves like a knife. 

He went a few steps up towards the landing and then looked down. Bunny was looking up at him, her eyes flooded with tears. She mouthed the words “Oscar’s room,” and FP nodded in understanding. As he turned the final corner into the upstairs hall, he heard the doorbell chime and Bunny’s soft, quick footsteps below him as she hurried back to answer it. 

The door to Oscar’s room was closed tight. FP opened it and slipped inside, sealing the door behind him. The lights were on, brightly illuminating the blue walls and their assortment of posters and trophies. In Fred’s room posters were defiantly tacked everywhere: here they were mounted in neat rows, catalogue-clean. Fred was lying on his back on his brother’s bed, his head at the base of the mound of pillows, staring blankly at the opposite wall. He was wearing one of his favourite Springsteen t-shirts, and it was dishevelled as though he had slept in it. One foot was bare, and his jeans were wrinkled, his hair unbrushed. He looked very young, like a petulant child sent to time-out and sulking away his punishment. 

“Hey,” FP said softly. He hesitated for a moment with his back against the door and then walked briskly to the foot of the bed, sinking down onto the duvet and dropping his bag on the floor. Fred’s enormous brown eyes turned to his face, and FP’s heart jackhammered hard in his chest. He reached for one of Fred’s hands and squeezed it. “How are you doing?” 

Fred shrugged. FP couldn’t have asked for anything more - it was a stupid question. The hand he was holding was cool and dry, and Fred squeezed back. Far below them, the doorbell was chiming, a bleat that punctured the sombre atmosphere like a grossly inappropriate ringtone. 

“Who else is staying over?” FP asked, listening to the scuffle downstairs. 

“My aunt Trudy and uncle Phil. Aunt Joan. My dad’s brothers and my cousins. My grandma. Some of Oscar’s friends from out of town. It’s a mess.” Fred rolled over and pressed his face into the pillow. “They’re staying here until the funeral tomorrow.” 

FP swung his legs up on the bed and put his arms around Fred. They curled up into each other, heart to heart like twins in a womb. Fred’s cheek found the crook of FP’s shoulder, his denim-clad legs wrapping around the back of FP’s knees. 

“I’m so sorry, Freddie,” FP whispered in his ear. Fred squeezed him hard, and he returned the pressure. 

“I think they wish it was me,” Fred whispered back. 

“Fred, no,” FP said, raising his voice slightly. “That’s not true.” 

Fred accepted this silently, but his face had gone hard and dull, closed off as though FP had lost him by saying the wrong thing. FP ran his hands lightly through Fred’s hair, and Fred shut his eyes against his friend's neck. His features softened out again, hurt and grieving. He felt small and very warm in FP’s arms. 

Silence descended on the bedroom. Both of them stared at the wall opposite the bed, still holding one another. A poster of Babe Ruth stared back at them through a glass frame, mockingly still. FP felt like he was lying somewhere out of time and space. Sobriety and the bright light in here didn’t help - there was a hangover chipping away at the back of his skull with ice-pick cruelty. 

As if reading his thoughts, Fred spoke. “Got anything to drink?” 

FP thought of the flask, but lied. “No.” 

“My mom has a bottle of wine in the bottom of the fridge,” Fred whispered back. “Will you go get it?” 

“Later,” FP promised, kissing his cheek. “Later.” 

Fred snorted as though he knew better, but didn’t move. There were tears trailing down his pale face, and FP nuzzled his face comfortingly into Fred’s neck. Fred’s little hands pressed gently against his back, holding him close. 

“He sold them the liquor, you know,” Fred said. His whisper was a buzz into the hair above FP’s ear. 

“Who?” 

“The kids who hit him.” 

FP pulled back and looked at Fred in horror. Fred’s brown eyes held his as though searching for something in his gaze, and then turned away. Yes, the playwright who had penned this turn of events was a morbid one indeed. Fred buried his face back in FP’s neck. 

“Just hold me, okay?” 

“Yeah,” said FP hoarsely. “Yeah, I can do that.” 

They didn’t talk much. FP hummed to Fred for a while, without really realizing he was doing it. He brushed his hair with his fingers and tried to push away the thought that had been circling in his head like a dryer cycle since he’d heard the news - that if he had the ability to make it his father instead of Fred’s brother who had been wiped out at the apex of a snowy intersection by a van of drunk teenagers, he would do anything, anything at all. This was not borne out of care for Oscar - though he had loved Oscar, who had always been beyond good to him in an older-brotherly sort of way, Oscar who had always been stable and practical to Fred’s tumultuous, a steady piece of their childhood which had now surely ended as abruptly as if they’d run headlong into a brick wall - but because it was his father who so assuredly deserved that gruesome fate. 

If he could spare Fred this pain and inflict a poetic type of misery on his father at the same time it would be a very pleasant January indeed - and perhaps for that reason the great playwright of their universe (if there was one, FP didn’t believe much in that but was open to being proven wrong if that would help Fred’s case) had omitted it from his final draft. FP could - and would - wish and wish so fervently that his eyes hurt and his chest felt close to exploding, but nothing would change. Forsythe senior, undeserving, would live to drink and scrap and break his son’s nose open, and Oscar Andrews would now and forever exist as a memory. 

Oscar was twenty-two when that van slammed into him head-on and killed him. “He’s older and he’s perfect,” Fred had griped once when introducing his brother, and now he would only be older for a matter of a small five years, but perhaps in the grip of death he would always be perfect. FP thought maybe that would hurt Fred forever - would still be there to taunt him when the initial shock had worn off, and the sharp and mangled grief gave way to the dull and permanent kind. It was the anticipation of this future hurt that made him kiss Fred the first time - hard, properly, on the mouth. Fred froze, and FP thought for a panicked moment he’d made everything worse - but then Fred was kissing him back, arms around his neck, pressing so needily into the embrace that there was nowhere for FP to go but falling backwards down onto the bed, dragging Fred with him. 

Doing this in a house full of relatives was imprudent - doing this on the day before Oscar’s funeral questionable on all kinds of levels. Neither of them, though, were renowned for their subtlety or prudence. Sometimes there was movement outside the door or from the floor below, once the sound of small running feet that must have belonged to a young kid, but they were isolated behind this door, protected from it. They kissed in a soundproof, underwater isolation that FP gave as much to as he could, knowing the carnal kind was the only comfort he was any good at offering. He waited uncomfortably for Fred to push him off or yell at him, to shame him for taking advantage of his pain, but Fred only kissed him as greedily as a hungry animal, his fists tightening and loosening on the back of FP’s t-shirt. 

“I’m so sorry,” FP whispered whenever their mouths went apart, and Fred hushed him and kissed him back more fiercely. FP trailed gentle kisses from Fred’s forehead down to his neck, nudging them into his jaw, his collarbone, the edges of his lips. He pressed their foreheads together, and Fred shut his eyes and took FP’s hand, twining their fingers together. 

When the kisses trailed off they only lay together, legs tangled, Fred burrowing against FP like he was trying to crawl into his skin. When the chime of the doorbell came again and voices sounded in the hall below, Fred suddenly perked up and looked at the closed door with interest. 

“I hear Alice. Will you go bring her up here?” He turned to FP with pleading eyes. “Please, I can’t go down. If my relatives see me they start talking to me, and-” 

FP nodded. 

“Be right back,” FP said, and kissed his temple. He slipped quickly out of the room before he could think too much about what he’d done, whether it was good or bad or shameful. 

He crept down the stairs as silently as possible, back into the realm of flower-smell and vacuum lines. Alice was there, but she had been waylaid by Artie - the real Artie, not the brother-doppelganger that FP had seen at the door. He was standing over her in the front hall, his brown eyes very bloodshot, gesturing with his hands as he told some long story that seemed to be about sports. Alice’s face held a note of barely-concealed panic, though she was smiling and nodding nicely. FP took a few obliging steps towards the door to rescue her, though he’d never felt less like moving somewhere in his life. 

“And then he sent the ball right at the upper corner -” Artie pivoted suddenly and saw FP. “FP.” He smiled, an unsteady smile - not drunk but wrong, somehow, a smile from which something was missing. He buried FP’s extended hand in one palm, and clapped him too hard on the shoulder. “Thank you for coming, son. Fred’ll be glad to see you. You know he sold them the liquor, right?” His brown eyes - Fred’s - blinked harshly in the light, his lips curved in an empty and meaningless grin that was utterly terrifying. His hand tightened painfully on FP’s grip and he offered a laugh, a those-darn-kids-what-can-you-do laugh that was absent of all humour. “Sold them the liquor, how’s that?” 

“We’re going upstairs, Mr. Andrews,” said Alice sweetly, and pulled FP’s shoulder. His hand peeled out of Artie’s strong grip with agonizing, sweaty slowness. FP felt a stab of fear and relief. “Fred needs to see us. We’re so sorry again. Give Mrs. Andrews our love, okay?” 

Artie hardly seemed to see them go, his eyes locked on the hall mirror. When they were out of earshot, Alice lowered her head to FP’s and muttered in his ear, hurrying him up the carpeted stairs. 

“He was telling me about Oscar’s sports victories. Jesus, you came at the right time. I think he’s really fucked up by this.” 

FP let out a long, shuddering breath and had the urge to bolt. Why had he ever thought this was a good idea? Then he remembered Fred - Fred slouched alone on the bed upstairs, eyes empty, his brother gone from the world, and he pulled Alice’s arm as he doubled his pace back upstairs. 

“Hey,” Alice said when she saw Fred - why that had seemed to both of them as an appropriate greeting on the eve of his brother’s funeral, FP wasn’t sure, but there it was - and to her credit she went to Fred immediately and threw her arms around him. Tears bloomed in Fred’s eyes. 

“Oscar was a good kid,” she said softly. “A really good kid. Geez.” 

FP joined them, and put his arms around Fred from the other side. They sat there for a moment, the three of them joined in an embrace. Then Fred, in a sudden motion as though remembering how to move, wiped his cheeks and forced a weak smile on his face. 

“Thanks,” he said hoarsely, looking at Alice and FP. “Both of you. It means a lot that you’re here.” 

“It’s nothing,” said Alice, taking a baggie of weed out of her jacket in a businesslike gesture and throwing it on the bed. FP was too caught up in the embarrassment of Alice potentially seeing right through them to the fact they’d been making out on that bed only moments ago to notice what it was at first. Fred snatched it up, examined it, and stuffed it under Oscar’s pillow. 

“Thanks.” 

“I thought we’d all need it.” Alice crossed her legs and looked at him. She was wearing a pair of fishnet tights which were about as acceptable at a funeral as FP’s yellow and blue duffel bag. “I’m really sorry, Freddie.” 

“Thanks, Al.” Fred’s little smile, empty as it was, made the knot in FP’s chest loosen somewhat. They talked for a bit about nonsensical topics: school and classes and teachers, stupid things they’d done on vacation. The house creaked, rumbled, quieted, the murmur of conversation carrying on far below. The doorbell pierced the silence like a knife. When the door of Oscar’s room swung open, it was so sudden that all three of them jumped. 

FP felt as guilty as if he’d been caught with a blunt in his hand, though the weed was still stashed under the pillow. He whirled around, expecting an aunt or uncle of Fred and Oscar’s asking why they weren’t downstairs - but it was a girl with dark hair standing there, dressed in a nice skirt and a collared blouse. 

“Oh,” she said flatly when she saw them clustered on the bed. “I thought….” 

She looked around at the walls, the framed certificates and the tidy record player on the dresser, a copy of Queen’s  _ Sheer Heart Attack _ propped up like Oscar would be home any moment to put it on. 

“I’ll leave you be,” she said, and FP realized why he recognized her - it was one of Hermione’s older sisters. Her name was Terry. She looked at Alice, recognizing her. “The Coopers are supposed to be by soon. Gertrude came home from college yesterday.” 

This meant something to Alice, who nodded. “Is Hermione here?” Fred asked flatly. FP felt an odd satisfaction that he couldn’t read if Fred’s tone was hopeful or reticent. He felt bad right away for it. 

“She might be downstairs with our mom.” Terry replied. She inclined her head to the door, her glossy hair falling over her shoulder. “You want me to go get her?” 

Fred shook his head politely. “I’ll talk to her later,” he said. 

Terry went out, closing the door, and Fred stared pensively out Oscar’s only window. Alice and FP watched him in silence. 

“Should we smoke before Hal gets here?” Alice asked at last, jutting her chin at the pillow. “You know how he gets.” 

“Your boyfriend’s a nerd,” said FP. He had wanted to coax a smile from Fred, but the view out the window was apparently too interesting. He thought briefly of his resolution to stay sober and tossed it to the wind. Clearly this was the kind of shit not even Fred could be expected to get through sober, and that gave FP a free pass. 

They smoked for a little while, the window thrown open despite the cold. Alice snuck down and retrieved Bunny’s bottle of wine, which they passed around like communion. At some point a pounding on the door made them all panic, but it was only Hiram - his demanding voice came clear as day through the wood. 

“It’s me, Fred. Let me in.” 

Alice got up to open the door. Hiram strolled into the room as though he owned it, dressed in a black turtleneck and sunglasses. He affected an air of bearing and charm that had undoubtedly made him the darling of all the aunts and uncles downstairs. His gaze flickered amusedly over the three of them, smelling the weed despite the open window. 

“I knew you’d need me for the good stuff.” 

Hal followed on Hiram’s heels, fidgeting, his hands clasped behind a blue sweater that was so new it looked uncomfortable. He went to Fred and hugged him tightly. From below them, FP could hear the shrill tones of Hal’s mother addressing the assembled parties downstairs. Hiram threw himself abruptly on the bed and put an arm around Fred’s shoulders. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, with a sincerity that stunned everyone in the room. “About Oscar. Damn sorry, Fred, really. That’s rough.” 

Caught off guard, Fred’s eyes welled sharply with tears. Hiram hung an arm around him and rummaged with his free hand in the pocket of his black coat. 

“I knew we’d need something stronger than weed here. I’ve got uppers and downers, whatever you want. Help yourself.” 

He took two bottles full of white pills from the lining of his coat, unscrewing the caps with practiced hands. Fred’s hand moved with disturbing swiftness toward the one nearest him, and everyone reacted at once. Hal’s jaw dropped. FP got up with fists clenched, and for a minute considered decking Hiram in the face. Alice shook her head in exasperation and casually smacked Hiram’s hand, causing the bottle to spill. 

“Hiram, what are you thinking?” she chastised him, but without too much by way of opposition. It was FP who wrestled the pill bottle away from Hiram with vehemence and shoved it deep in his pocket. Fred was pawing through the pills on the duvet, and FP grabbed those too, scraping them out of Fred’s palm with his fingernails. 

“Come on, it’ll help,” protested Hiram, settling back on the bed like it was his own. “My mom and dad never go to a funeral without them.” 

“Fred, show me your mouth,” FP asked suddenly, feeling rather like he was scolding a dog. Fred opened his mouth to display his tongue, empty, but FP eyed him warily anyway. A gust of cold wind blew in the open window, making the curtains billow inward. 

The door opened suddenly, and this time they were all caught off guard. It was Bunny, still in the black dress, her face very pale. Hiram got up in a quick movement and stood directly in front of her, putting on an effortless smile while Alice pitched the joint out the window and slammed it shut. Hal leapt to his feet, his face flaming scarlet, despite the fact that he hadn’t done anything. FP shoved the wine bottle under a nearby pillow and the handful of pills into his pocket. 

They needn’t have bothered with the rigamarole - Bunny’s grieving eyes seemed to look right through them. FP had always had a suspicion she’d be able to recognize the smell of weed if the occasion presented itself - but this perhaps was not the occasion. If she sensed any wrongdoing, she didn’t react at all. 

“They say you should come down,” was all Bunny said, softly, like it wasn’t her house. Hiram had a hand on her arm, and she looked down at it and then at him without expression. “For dinner.” 

Fred insisted that he wasn’t hungry, but Bunny just turned quickly and went back down the stairs in a series of hurried footsteps, leaving the door ajar. Hiram got up and closed it, turning so his back was pressed to the wood. 

“Jesus, you gotta get a lock for this. Are we all done abusing substances?” 

They trooped down in a line. There were far more people in the house than had been likely asked to stay for dinner, but Prudence Cooper had taken over the proceedings completely and directed them to extra seats at the table with the efficiency of a general. Hiram disappeared before dessert, and his place was taken by one of the young cousins. Hal sat with his sister, who was crying steadily and privately, wiping her face on one of Bunny’s good linen napkins. 

The phone rang off the hook while they ate. Bunny had given up trying to pull herself together and walked from room to room with tears running down her cheeks, as pale as a ghost. FP was most uncomfortable with Artie’s attention - he was sitting at FP’s side and kept clapping him on the shoulder and talking about how he and Fred were like brothers. At one point he told a long and meandering story about FP to anyone listening that was only half truth - this culminated in him crying suddenly, which scared FP worse than any anger he’d ever witnessed from Fred’s dad. 

Fred sat across from FP. His face had gone perfectly void of emotion - even when his dad started to cry, he projected a hollow flatness, like he was living in some other world. FP watched him the whole time he ate - or drank, rather, ignoring his plate in favour of a bottle of beer Fred’s uncle had offered. The memories came then, like he was reading them out of Fred’s head - Oscar in his jean jacket, Oscar in his pickup truck, Oscar giving them a ride to some baseball game or letting them wander around the liquor store while he was working. The permanence of death made him too nauseous to swallow, and the grief sliced in again: needle-sharp and hungry. 

While Mrs. Cooper was setting out a dessert that no one felt like eating, he pulled Fred aside into the alcove provided by the stairwell. 

“Hey,” he said gently, and turned Fred’s chin with his hand so they were eye-to-eye. Maybe it was his imagination - or maybe it was whatever pills he hadn’t managed to get away from him - but Fred’s eyes shone a little brighter when they fixed on his face. “They don’t wish it was you.” 

His heart was pounding, his mouth sawdust-dry, his hangover still present. FP wasn’t good with words, but this was important, so he had to try. 

“Fred, your folks love you like crazy. They know how lucky they are to have you. You, not anyone else. I promise.” 

Fred hugged him, long and hard, a hug that took his breath away. It was the first sign that anything was going even remotely right. FP buried his nose in the warm place where Fred’s neck met his shoulder and was surprised to feel himself holding back tears. 

“I know,” said Fred hoarsely. His tone was still flat, oddly mellow. “Thank you.” 

This air of silent composure lasted until midnight. FP woke to the sound of Fred weeping in the bed they were sharing, his cries half-muffled in the pillow. FP reached out blindly with his hand and grabbed Fred’s shoulder, where his shirt was wet with tears. Fred started to sob, loud and ragged, and FP pulled him into his arms. He was shaking, and FP’s hand found the back of Fred’s hair and tucked his head against his neck. 

“Shh,” he whispered, his chest stiffening with pain. He could feel tears of his own mounting. “Shh, baby. Baby, shh. I’m here. I’m here.” He rocked Fred gently to this refrain while Fred wailed into his chest, conjuring these platitudes up from somewhere he couldn’t even imagine - no one had ever said these things to him. “I know, baby. Shh. I’ve got you.” 

Fred cried until two in the morning, at which point he seemed to run out of tears. He faded into a fretful sleep, whimpering sometimes against FP’s shoulder, and finally sleeping so deeply and hard that he could have been unconscious. FP didn’t move. The sun rose late and low through the curtained window around six-thirty, beyond which the sky remained a hopeless, everlasting grey. Only when the house began to murmur with action around seven did they stumble out of the warm cocoon of blankets. 

“Can I borrow a suit?” FP asked softly, as Fred sat up, rubbing his eyes. There was no good way to ask for such a thing, but his discomfort went unmentioned. 

“Yeah.” Fred’s voice had gone flat again, his face turned to the gray plane of the window, and a new pang of dread filled FP’s stomach in anticipation of the day ahead: the church, the procession, Fred’s family, an eventual and unavoidable trip to the graveyard. Oscar, twenty-two for the rest of their lives, smiled serenely at them from a photobooth strip tacked to the mirror. FP remembered the flask in his jacket with relief.

“Anything you want,” said Fred, and wrapped his fingers weakly around FP’s hand. “Thank you for being here.”   
  



End file.
